The Hunter's Moon (23 page)

She caught her breath. He did it again! His charm had disarmed her.

“I’m glad we’re no longer enemies,” she said, and she meant it.

“Then I hope we may be friends.”

The King addressed Dara next. Laying his hand on the young man’s shoulder, he spoke formally.

“Hail, King of Inch. I have known your ancestors, your line is noble. I am glad that you join me on this perilous venture.”

Dara replied with equal ceremony.

“All kings and princes look to the High King. It is my duty and honor to stand by you, Sire.”

When Finvarra came to Granny, he took her hand and bowed to kiss it. There was a wistfulness to his actions that was also gentle.

“Dear heart, thou art not forgotten. Always my people have watched over you.”

“I know that,” said the Wise Woman. “And it has meant much to me.”

The King’s glance rested a moment on her Claddagh ring, which showed two silver hands cupping a heart with a crown.

“You never married? I would not have wished that for you.”

“It was my decision,” she said firmly. Then a girlish laugh lit up her features. “There was no one who could replace you.”

In that moment the others caught a glimpse of an old truth. Granny suddenly appeared as she had in her youth, Grania Harte, a dark-haired beauty who once was consort to the King of the Fairies. Then the image faded and there she stood, gray-haired and aged, yet tall and unbowed.

Lastly, Finvarra came to Findabhair. He didn’t touch her, but his very stance was a caress. He inclined toward her like a reed in the wind.

“We need no words, Beloved. Our fates are entwined until the stars fall. It is for you I have taken this path and I do so without regret. Whether fairy or mortal, love is all.”

Her empathy with his speech was evident in the light that transformed her. She was no longer a girl but a woman, in the presence of the one she loved and with whom she would willingly die.

Up to that moment Finvarra had been acting in the manner of a High King, with the genteel
courteisie
of the fairy race. Now he dropped his stately pose and stood before them in jeans and black T-shirt. With his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, he appeared for all the world as a normal if strikingly handsome young man. His eyes were solemn.

“We go as equals, friends, to meet our doom. For no one yet has survived the Hunter’s Moon.”

t was late in the night. The hearth fire flickered fitfully as the last flames folded into a labyrinth of red embers. Shadows danced on the walls. Voices murmured in earnest talk. The little group hunched over a mountain of books that spilled from the kitchen table onto the floor. Great tomes bound in leather leaned against volumes of parchment, vellum manuscripts, and modern texts in hardcover and paperback. There were even scrolls of papyrus. The books included grimoires, bestiaries, annals, fables, collections of folk and fairy tales, works of divination and numerology, and ancient histories. Some were gorgeously illuminated with colored inks, while others were so plain and stark they reeked of occult power.

“Every magician’s treasure trove,” the Wise Woman told them, “is their store of wisdom, their library. Somewhere in these pages lies what we need. Look for items that mention power or battle. Numbers are important. There may even be references to the Worm itself.”

“A cure for chicken pox,”
Gwen read out loud.
“Boil up sheep droppings in a bag in a pot and drink the water.”

She put the book aside.

“How about this,” Findabhair said, grinning.
“A cure for warts: gather stones the number of your warts and throw the stones after a funeral, saying ‘Corpse, corpse, carry my warts.’”

“They worried a lot about warts in the old days,” Dara commented. “This book has lashin’s about them. Here’s a good one.
Take stones for the number of warts, put them in a bag, and leave them by the roadside. Whoever picks up the bag gets your warts
.”

“That’s nice,” said Gwen.

“We have to sort the wheat from the chaff,” the old woman pointed out mildly, “like anything in life.”

Gwen threw her cousin a despairing look as Granny produced yet another box from under the stairs. Despite hours of searching, they had yet to find anything.

Findabhair leaned against Finvarra.

“You must know more about this than any book.”

He kissed her forehead.

“I know only what has always been known, my love. At the heart of the story about your race and mine is this basic truth: mortals must act to save Faerie. If they do not, we die.”

“Here’s a number thing,” Gwen said suddenly.

The heavy volume was bound with metal clasps, its title was stamped in gilded letters.
The Book of Numbers
. She turned the handwritten pages trimmed with gold leaf. The script was old-fashioned with extravagant flourishes, but it was in English and readable. Each chapter dealt with a number, from one to one thousand, and contained poems, portents, and prophecies.

“Didn’t you say seven had the most power?” Gwen asked Granny, as she flipped to the seventh section. She perused the pages quickly. Now her voice shook as she read out loud.

Seven promises are made
,

Seven debts will be repaid
,

Seven litanies in leaves
,

Seven birds and seven sheaves
,

Seven yet may herald ruin
,

Seven at the Hunter’s Moon
.

Leaning over her shoulder, Dara was reading ahead on the page. He let out a cry.

“Bigod, here it is!
A charm against the Great Worm!
”

Granny’s hands trembled as she took up the book.

“To kill the Worm wherein there is terror, seven angels may do so valiantly.”

When no one spoke, Gwen finally asked, “So what does it mean?”

“Our endeavor is possible,” Finvarra answered thoughtfully.

Findabhair snorted. “If we find seven angels.”

“We’ve got five right here,” was Dara’s point. “We’ll just have to do it shorthanded.”

“NO!” Granny’s eyes flashed. She brandished the book as if it were a weapon. “If we are to challenge the universe, we must follow the ancient guides. To do otherwise would be arrogance, the seal of our ruin. If we do not find two more, we act to our peril.”

“Two more who believe in fairies in this day and age?” Findabhair spoke bitterly. “And not only that, who love them enough to risk their own lives? We’ve as much chance as—”

Gwen slapped the table so hard, the others jumped.

“There
are
two more! Right here in Ireland! Two friends of mine! Wow, I can hardly believe this. It’s as if—” She stopped. Her face shone with wonder. “This is all meant to happen.” She grinned as the others gaped at her. “Well, I can’t be a hundred percent sure until I ask them, but I’m pretty certain we’ve got two more.”

The deep frown that furrowed Granny’s brow vanished. Her words rang with a confidence that inspired them all.

“Seven were the days of Genesis. Seven are the pillars of life. Seven will be the fires of the Apocalypse. No better number can ride the storm. As a Company of Seven we will forge our destiny.”

With Gwen’s pledge to summon her friends, the night’s deliberations ended. The fire had smoldered into ash. The room was cold. Finvarra glanced out the window with a restless look.

“I can bide here no longer,” he said, standing to bow. “Till we meet again, companions.”

Findabhair left with him to walk in the garden. The night perfume of trees and flowers scented the air. Moonlight dappled the fields beyond the road. The shadow of the mountains loomed behind them.

“Mortal dwellings are too close for me,” said the King.

He was already assuming fairy form, merging with the cloak of night, drifting into the sky brooched with stars.

“Go freely, my love,” Findabhair said softly, “till we meet again.”

He stooped to kiss her and it was as if the wind caressed her lips, a warm wind but wild too, tasting of earth and leaves and rain-moist air.

When she returned to the house, Gwen met her in the doorway.

“It’s impossible,” Findabhair said, her eyes wet.

Gwen gave her a hug.

“Nothing’s impossible, cuz. After all we’ve been through, you should know that by now.”

Dara had taken the daybed in the kitchen, leaving his room for the girls. The cousins settled down for the night, but with no intentions of sleeping. Despite the late hour they talked till it was almost dawn. There was so much to say, not only of the trial that lay ahead but of the adventures each had had when they were apart.

“I am really and truly sorry,” Findabhair said, when she heard Gwen’s story. “What a wagon I’ve been! I got so caught up with Finvarra I hadn’t a thought for you, or anything else for that matter. I used to hate girls who dropped their pals because of some boy. But now I know what being madly in love can do to you. Were you furious with me? I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Funny thing about that. I was and I wasn’t. Once I got over the shock of being on my own, and got the hang of doing things for myself, it was really great. If you had been there, I would have been following you around like a dope as usual. And another thing,” she added, in a moment of total honesty, “I was really glad you weren’t here when I met Dara.”

“Oh God, yes, what a sweetie. We would have been tearing out each other’s hair for him.”

They muffled their laughter under the blankets.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“Yes,” said Gwen. “So keep your eyes and your hands off him.”

More giggles. Then Findabhair sighed with envy.

“You’re the lucky one. At least he’s in the same world as you.”

“Oh yeah, sure, like I live in Ireland. You and I are both in for long-distance relationships.”

They sighed together.

“And who knows if we’ll even have that by the time this is over,” Findabhair said gravely.

Gwen shook her head.

“Call me Scarlett, but I’m not going to think about that till tomorrow.”

Though her cousin eventually fell asleep, Gwen stayed awake. Light seeped through the curtains and into the room. It seemed to bring the glimmer of promise. A nameless thrill coursed through Gwen. She knew something wonderful was about to happen.

The moment the tapping on the windowpane began, she was up in an instant.

Padding barefoot from the room, in the long T-shirt she wore to bed, Gwen left the cottage. The morning was pale with early sunlight and mist. The grass was cool beneath her feet. A soft breeze played in her hair. Moving instinctively, as if beckoned to follow, she walked around to the back of the house. There Granny’s wild garden trailed into a thicket of old oak and holly. On the threshold of the wood stood a tall rowan tree.

Laughter bubbled from Gwen’s lips. Her childhood dream come true! Fairies at the bottom of the garden!

It was just as she had always imagined. They bedecked the tree like a mass of bright berries. Tiny and winged, clothed in thistledown and spiderweb, goldenhaired, silver-eyed, they glittered like fireflies. Some were asleep, tucked under the leaves. Others flitted in the branches like jeweled hummingbirds. A few shivered as they shyly acknowledged her gaze. Their size took nothing from the wonder of their creation. Does the speck of a star diminish its beauty? Indeed Gwen regarded this cluster of fairies with the same awe she viewed the constellations of heaven.
As above, so below
. Here was life’s mystery in all its splendor.

“Thank you,” she whispered, with tears in her eyes.

She knew who had sent this precious gift. After all the hardship he had caused her, Gwen was now reconciled with the King of Faerie.